


deep blue and wide open

by carnival_papers



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time, Intimacy, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Skinny Dipping, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tenderness, fellas is it gay to remodel a seaside cottage with your best friend?, high romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26837878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/pseuds/carnival_papers
Summary: A summer by the sea.“There are stories, you know, of men coming home and being unable to settle back into what's normal. I feel it, sometimes, like an itch at the top of my spine.” James leans forward, clasps his hands together. “You do not have to say yes, but I believe a change in scenery might do us both good.”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 55
Kudos: 143





	deep blue and wide open

It came to pass that in the summer of 1848, after a lifetime of waiting, a ship arrived. They were all sick by then, and many of them were dead, but most of them were alive. Somehow. They had no strength to muster tears of joy, nor any excitement at knowing home was finally within reach, only a sense of relief that this was over, or would be over soon, and the ever-present hunger roiling in their bellies.

For Francis Crozier, there was also the overwhelming feeling of failure. Of the expedition, of the Admiralty—but more than anything, himself. This was not new to him. It was, in fact, a feeling he had grown used to, carved into his skin and the folds of his brain with a hot knife, the pain dulled with swigs of whiskey. There was no more whiskey to be had, though, and even if there had been, he told himself he would not drink it again. He had spent too many days sweating and shitting and begging and, eventually, breaking free of it, to let himself go back. No matter how much he wanted it. No matter how heavy the weight of his failure. This was his burden to bear now, with senses painfully sharpened.

When they arrived in London, there was color in their cheeks, the arms of wives and women to fall into. Francis could not let himself bask in any of it. He had so much to explain, to answer for. How was he to tell Lady Jane what had happened to her husband? Or explain to John Irving’s father that not even the grace of God could protect his son? Weeks later, there would be the court martial. He would stand before the Admiralty and try to make sense of what had happened. In the torturous nights before, he’d agonized over whether or not to divulge the more absurd details of the expedition. How to explain Hickey, Stanley, Tuunbaq, all the rest? How to make them understand that Goodsir had gone with Silence willingly, happily, his hand in hers?

In the end, it poured out of him like water. All of it. He told what he could, aware of how ridiculous it sounded. And when he had no words left, he sat, heaved a sigh, and swore to never again speak of it.

There were no charges made, no questions ever raised. But there were whispers, he knew, that mad Francis Crozier, his brain pickled from drink, had left his good sense in the Arctic with Sir John’s body.

He took no visitors, read no letters, did not leave except to pace the streets. There were ghosts everywhere. How strange, to be home and yet not feel it. It wasn’t the same urge he had felt once long ago, the dream of the sea that kept his belongings confined to a single drawer. He did not long for the sea, or the ice, or home. His only longing was not to _be_ —a terrifying thought, when he allowed himself to think it. At night sometimes he stood on the banks of the Thames and wondered what the river would feel like.

Well, he had not survived the Arctic just to throw himself into oblivion, no matter how much easier it might be. On those nights, he returned to his small, dark rooms, laid in his small, stiff bed, and gave himself leave to wonder, to imagine that he might be missed.

In this way, Francis passed the long winter. It was not much of a life, but then, he was not sure he deserved one. He never wanted to see snow again.

*

It is because of all of this—his terrible silence, the weeks spent in bed, letters piling up unopened on his bureau—that, on the first bright day in March, there is an insistent knock at his door. As he has done over the past months, like a hibernating bear, he does his best to ignore it. But this knock is unignorable and grows louder, and someone shouts _Francis!_ from outside his bedroom window, so he answers. Cracks the door just enough to see the sliver of a face—the kind eyes, the lines at the sides of a mouth.

“James?” he says, his voice more frog than human. He opens the door further, hinges creaking.

James Fitzjames throws a palm against the hard wood and gapes. “My god, Francis, I thought you were dead.”

“Not as such,” Francis says. He is suddenly acutely aware of his dishevelment—hair stuck up, in the same shirt and trousers he’s been wearing for God knows how long, three days’ stubble on his chin. No doubt he looks a mess.

“May I?” James says, nodding at the inside of Francis’ rooms. With hesitance, Francis lets him in. The place is a disaster, but James doesn’t seem to mind. He perches on the moth-eaten sofa, picking lint off the cushion, while Francis stands in the corner, arms wrapped around himself. Francis feels exposed—when was the last time he really spoke to another human being, much less had someone in his home? James, at least, is the compassionate sort, not so quick to judge as Francis himself would be, but still.

James clears his throat. “I suppose you haven’t read the letter I sent you, then,” he says, not unkindly. Drums his fingers on his knee.

“I—I haven’t been so well, James. I’m certain that’s obvious.” He lowers himself into a chair, his body aching. Strange, how he never seemed to be ill in the Arctic, but finds himself hurting now, bones gone glassy, muscles gone weak. He sighs. Doesn’t quite want to look at James, afraid he’ll see pity there in his face.

But James looks at him, his jaw set. “I’ve worried about you. At the court martial you did not even speak to me.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I say I was preoccupied,” Francis says. Guilt settles over him like a fog.

James scoffs. “I’m not here to chide you, much as you may wish that were the case. I have a proposition for you.”

Francis arches an eyebrow. “A proposition.”

“One that you may, in fact, find outlandish, but I ask that you give me leave to explain everything before you decide you have no interest.”

These little remarks have a way of cutting straight to Francis’ marrow. Of all the people he has known, somehow James Fitzjames is the one who most truly understands him, the way he will stop himself from trying by believing he’s already failed. Francis merely nods.

“Last month, my brother, William, bought a parcel of land in Sussex, on the South Downs. Just a small parcel, but close to the river and the shore, and walking distance from Beachy Head. A lovely place, really, from the way he described it. Idyllic, I believe, was the word he used. Apparently, on the land there’s a little cottage, tucked away behind some trees. A bit decrepit, but livable. Now, William, as you know, is in Brighton, with his wife and his political aspirations keeping him too busy to do the work himself. So he wrote to me with a bargain: if I wanted to get out of London, I could stay at the place in Sussex indefinitely, so long as I did some minor upkeep on the cottage, so that he and Elizabeth might eventually be able to holiday or retire there. And I am coming to you with the same offer.”

Francis blinks. It’s not as if he hasn’t considered it himself, in his darker moments—stealing away to some warmer clime and not telling a soul. Nowhere so close as Sussex, but it would be nice to be so near to the water. Perhaps being caged up somewhere beautiful would, in the long run, be better than being caged up here, where his past follows him, haunts him. “I see,” he says. “That’s quite generous.”

“I’m no builder, of course. But I imagine I can paint a wall, or tend a garden. William just wants the place to not look like it’s been sacked, I think.” A smile turns up the corner of James’ mouth.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Francis says. Because it would be an imposition, wouldn’t it, to take advantage of this man’s generosity? “And your William doesn’t know me, anyway. If he did, he wouldn’t be asking me this.”

_“I’m_ asking you, Francis. Not William.” James leans forward, clasps his hands together. “If I may say so—at the Admiralty hearing, you seemed…unmoored. And when I did not hear from you for so long, I did worry that something had happened. There are stories, you know, of men coming home and being unable to settle back into what’s normal. I feel it, sometimes, like an itch at the top of my spine. You do not have to say yes, but I believe a change in scenery might do us both good.”

For a moment, Francis considers it. To leave means to abandon the security of this life, humdrum though it is. He is safe here, in his routine, in his loneliness. But in the Arctic, he had made himself vulnerable, he and James both. And though he had been afraid, it had been rewarding—it had been beautiful—to lay himself bare and have James _know_ him. Perhaps he could have that again. If nothing else, the skies would be blue, the grass would be green, and James would be there. His friend.

“All right,” Francis says. “I’ll go.”

*

The place is indeed idyllic, even if the cottage itself is a bit dilapidated. Still, there’s a certain charm in its disrepair: the garden dense with greenery, the rusted iron gate, the crumbling stone walls. The sweep of the landscape gives Francis the same feeling he had the first time he’d seen the Arctic, back with Parry, before he knew what fear was like. He’d wanted to get lost in it, dig his hands into it, and now he feels a strange desire to bury his fingers in the dirt and smell the soil, learn the soul of this place that might be home.

Inside, the little house is just as derelict. The floorboards creak, and a late-afternoon shower reveals a leak in the parlor’s ceiling. But there is potential here, a beauty hidden under the layers of peeling wallpaper. The old furniture, humble and worn with use, reminds Francis of days as a child at Avonmore House, climbing over the sofa while playing with his brothers, falling asleep with his head in his mother’s lap. James draws a finger through a layer of dust on the dining room table, says, “Well, it does leave a little to be desired.” Francis, though, cannot stop himself from smiling, seeing this for what it is—a chance to start again.

And, yes, there are complications, stumbling blocks to be dealt with. That leak in the parlor will become a more pressing concern if the rain continues; the single bedroom leaves James to sleep on the sofa (at his insistence, saying, _no, Francis, I’m the one who dragged you here, take the bloody bed_ ); neither of them is certain they can cook anything edible. But when the sun begins to set, Francis makes tea, and they sit opposite one another at the table, comfortable enough not to speak, listening to the sounds of each other being. In the morning, there will be work to do. For now, though, this is enough.

In the evening, as Francis collects their cups and saucers, James yawns, stretches his arms like a just-woken cat. “What do you think?” he says, his eyes heavy with sleep. “Can we make a silk purse of this sow’s ear, or is it too far gone?”

Francis turns. James is resting his head on the backs of his hands, looking like a tired ship’s boy after a particularly difficult day. “I don’t believe anything can be too far gone to fix, James. You taught me that,” Francis says. He thinks he sees a smile flicker across James’ face. “We’ll start tomorrow, hm?”

He takes some pleasure in the way James nods, as if this were a foregone conclusion.

That night in bed, Francis pulls the blankets around himself. Though clean, they smell of someone else, whoever had been here before them. Strange to think of this place as theirs now—borrowing it, sure, but theirs, indefinitely. And theirs to make new, to make into something wonderful. It has been such a long time since he was happy that Francis cannot say for sure what it is, but this, he thinks, is something close.

*

And so life goes like this for some time, a stretch of lovely long days spent pulling up weeds, scraping away old wallpaper, trying and failing and trying again to bake bread. Francis, they learn, is good with a hammer and nails, old memories of his time as a midshipman still living in his bones, and by the season’s second storm, the leak in the parlor has long since been fixed. James plants vegetables and flowers in the front garden, brings home cuttings of herbs from the woman at the market, brews cups of sweet mint tea for both of them in the evenings. They learn to live with each other, foreign as it is, and it becomes almost natural.

The melancholy does not disappear, exactly. There are still mornings when Francis wakes up and feels nothing but the crush of guilt like an anvil on his chest. On these days, Francis finds himself wondering how he ever thought this might be curable, why he deluded himself into believing that the sun and the sea would solve all his problems. They run far deeper than that, he’s realized, and perhaps he is irreparably broken.

One morning, the feeling washes over him and he cannot shake it, cannot even force himself to leave his bed to try and make himself better. His whole body feels heavy, as if his limbs were made of lead, and he does not have the strength to keep trying. He half expects James to come and needle him into painting the trim in the parlor or going into town for something to eat. But what James does is far stranger: he brings a glass of water to Francis’ bedside, squeezes Francis’ shoulder, and withdraws to the parlor to read. Francis cannot manage so much as a thank you, buckled by gloom as he is, but the water is cool and clear and tastes like something healing.

He cannot make sense of what he’s done to deserve this—this new life here, where he is useful but not burdened with responsibility, where he is cared for but not treated as inadequate. He does not tell James how much these simple gestures mean to him. How can he? It would sound foolish. Instead, he resolves to do the same for James whenever it is needed. Theirs is a friendship built on a kind of mutuality. It’s only right that he plan to take care of James however he can, too.

Francis wakes before the sun rises the next morning, toasts their days-old bread and sets out a spread of fruit preserves. It isn’t much, but it’s a small way of saying thanks. At least, he hopes James will see it that way. There is much work still to be done, but Francis sits at the table, sips tea, listens to the sound of James asleep in the sitting room around the corner.

When James appears perhaps an hour later, his hair is a bird’s nest of frizz and flyaways. It is the first time Francis has ever seen it look anything short of flawless. He wants to laugh—this reminder of their shared humanity far more welcome than those they had found in the Arctic. More judiciously, Francis only smiles, says, “Good morning.”

James blinks, nods, murmurs some greeting in response, still seeming half asleep. Francis thinks of pouring him a cup of tea, the kettle still hot on the stove, but James beats him to it. Instead he pushes the plate of bread toward James, along with the jams and marmalade.

“I thought we might walk to Beachy Head today,” James says, swallowing down a bit of toast, a smudge of blackberry jam on his upper lip. He clears it away with a quick swipe of his tongue.

“Don’t we have things to do here?”

“Yes. And they will still be here when we return. But we’ve hardly taken any time to admire the scenery since we’ve arrived. Soon it’ll be too hot to go out without being positively miserable.” He scrapes a knife across a piece of toast, smothering it in jam.

“I suppose we’ve earned ourselves a break,” Francis says.

“Earned or not,” James says, gesticulating with the knife, “if we want to go, we go. We have no obligations but to ourselves.”

That is a concept Francis can’t quite wrap his head around. Even here, he has obligations—to the house, to William, to James. Isn’t that true? He cannot imagine a world where he is not beholden to someone. But for his sake, he must believe James—for why would James say it if it were not a fact? Why would James bring him here if not to make them both better?

He is stuck pondering this on the interminable walk to Beachy Head, over the wide green fields. James leads, taking long strides. _Best walker in the service_ , Francis thinks. Struggles to keep up. When the cliff is finally in view, James slows and stands, allows Francis a moment to catch up to him. With the sun at his back, he looks like a saint, anointed. And maybe he is. Francis still does not understand how James made it out of the Arctic alive—he had been so close to death that even on the ship back to England, Francis had stayed at James’ side, watching as Ross’ surgeon tended to him. Now, it seems hardly possible that James Fitzjames is mortal at all. But Francis had seen him bleed, felt the heave of his chest as he struggled for breath. Knows that under his glossy exterior, there is a man with a heart as tender as any other.

“Almost there, old man, keep up,” James says. Francis halfheartedly shoves him, and James laughs, a sound Francis locks away somewhere for safekeeping.

They crest the hill and suddenly they are at the top of the world, all that green plunging into clear blue water, only the sheer white face of the cliff beneath them. The height is dizzying, even here, not quite at the edge. Yet there is something sublime about it, a transcendent beauty that catches his breath. He had known this place had a pastoral serenity, but he had not expected this—the crash of waves below, the briny sea air, the thought of plummeting, Icarian, into the expanse below. The nearness of danger; the reassurance of safety.

James sits cross-legged in the grass, the knees of his trousers stained green. He gestures for Francis to sit, so he does, his joints aching as he gets to the ground. “Perhaps a bit slower for the old man next time,” Francis says, groaning a bit. He stretches his legs out before him, rubs the soft, sore muscles of his thighs. Has his body really deteriorated so much?

“I’m sorry,” James says, the lines of his face creasing with a smile. His knee brushes against Francis’, a casual contact he hasn’t known since those days in the cold. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it, yearned for it, until now.

For some time, they are quiet. Francis leans back on the palms of his hands, stares straight up. The sky is impossibly blue, marbled with diaphanous white clouds. The sort of sky one might find in a watercolor, full of gauzy, perfect light. A cool breeze, the reminder of the sea. Earth under his hands, solid. Of all the possible outcomes of the expedition, Francis never imagined this.

James finally says, “I could sit up here forever.”

“It _is_ beautiful, James. I’ve never seen anything like it.” A glance. James in profile, the slope of his nose sharp against the azure sky, lashes dark and thick. Up close, the wear of his illness is more visible: a certain wanness to his skin, the thin lines at the corners of his eyes etched more deeply now, a few pale silver hairs sprouting at his temples. But there is life, too, in the flush of his cheeks, in the new-grown stubble at his jaw. He still has a good many years ahead of him, Francis thinks, though he knows every stolen moment since they returned from the Arctic has been a little miracle in itself.

“It’s strange,” James says, voice quiet under the sound of the wind. “I thought nothing would ever feel so...so _fulfilling_ as my time in the Navy. Coming home and seeing no future on a ship—I was terrified. I thought I might go mad. But the few weeks we’ve been here have been as satisfying as any I’ve ever had. Perhaps more.”

Francis struggles for words. What to say to this, to James cutting himself open once again? He hadn’t known what to say that day at the cairn, and when James was dying, Francis had worried endlessly that he’d missed some perfect opportunity to let James know that he was good enough, brave enough, true enough. He doesn’t want to make that mistake a second time. Francis says, “I feel the same. I suppose you know that. I do wonder if I’ll ever set foot on a ship again. But I—I think I could be happy here, or somewhere like here. Doing this.”

James turns to him, his face as honest and open as a child’s. “You’re happy here?” An almost imperceptible waver in his speech.

“I am. I feel useful again.”

James frowns, shakes his head. “But are you _happy_?”

And Francis—he doesn’t know how to answer that. When in his life has he ever really been happy? When has anyone? Still, if he was forced to make a decision right now, this very moment, the rest of his life would look something like this. No more Admiralty, no more London, no more standing at the riverbank in the middle of the night. Just the sun and the sea and his friend and the world. Beholden to no one but himself.

“Yes,” Francis says. “I am. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I owe you for that.”

James’ face goes soft, a thing melting. “No, Francis,” he says, laying himself supine on the ground, palms behind his head. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Francis wants to argue. Wants to say, _I do, absolutely I do, more than I could possibly tell you_ , but he keeps his mouth shut. Instead he lets himself follow James’ lead—the natural course of things—and reclines, too, aligning his body with James’, the earth warm underneath his back. How peculiar, Francis thinks, to have only this and want nothing more.

*

Just as James predicted, the days soon grow oppressively hot, the only relief coming in the cool of evening, after the sun has long since set. In early June, their garden begins to bloom, and the front of the cottage is a wash of pink and purple and white, their tomatoes growing fat on the vine. The inside still needs work, certainly, and they chip away at it day by day, but when Francis sips his tea at the window each morning, he is proud of all they have done to make this place into a home.

They take to walking a few nights a week, when they talk about nothing and everything. Even when the conversation slows, Francis is content to listen to the sounds of crickets in the tall grass, sheep bleating in the far-off fields.

They talk, sometimes, of their childhoods, share stories that occupy the space between memory and dream. James imagines his mother, rendering her with such clarity that it cracks open something deep inside Francis. A sort of pure, unsullied affection for James—almost naive in its innocence—cascades out of him. Francis wants to go back, somehow, and protect that eager, wide-eyed boy, take him somewhere that the thorns of his parentage won’t follow him, where he’ll never learn the words _Royal Navy_ and _Euphrates_ and _sniper_ and _Arctic_. He thinks of a universe where James is never scarred, never bleeds, where there is no expedition and their paths never cross. How quickly he would give up all of this if it meant James was kept safe.

He looks at James differently after that. He tries not to, but he can’t help himself. When they walk at night, he steadies James over rocks at the riverside. In the garden, he offers a hand to help James up from the ground. Small gestures that, somehow, feel world-changing. In the Arctic, those last dire days, touch had come easily. Simple, uncomplicated, reassuring. And now it comes easily again, not just for Francis but for the both of them—a palm on the back, a clap on the shoulder.

James asks questions now and then. _Do you hear from Tom Blanky? Have you seen this, about Edward?_ Talking around what happened back then. The Arctic is a presence, like a spirit, not to be spoken of, not to be acknowledged. Certain names go unsaid, names too painful for either of them to speak. A part of Francis wants to talk about it, thinks that excavating the cavern of those memories would be better than having it constantly looming. But when he tries to broach the subject, his throat constricts. He cannot make himself say any of it.

On a particularly hot midsummer night, they walk the riverbank. The river has a meandering way about it, cutting lazy curves through the verdant meadows. Tonight the moon is low and bright, and its pale reflection ripples over the surface of the water. Not even the cool wind off the sea, though, can break through the swelter, and the two of them are sweating. Francis is keenly aware of his body, how his shirt sticks to his skin, how sweat gathers at the nape of his neck, soaking into his collar. Even James, who so rarely seems susceptible to physical threats, is breathless, staggered.

“I think we’ve made a terrible mistake,” Francis says, groaning. They are standing at a bend in the river, James bent double with his palms on his thighs, wheezing.

“ _God_ ,” James says, “I can’t stand this bloody heat.” He draws in big, gasping breaths, and the sound twists inside Francis’ chest. He remembers the tent, Bridgens, nights spent at James’ side, prolonging what felt inevitable. Francis can’t bear to hear it again, to think of it for a moment longer.

“Let’s have a rest. Hm?” Francis says, taking James by the wrist, urging James to sit with him on the bank, breathe, listen to the sounds of the water. But James is distant, and as Francis gets to the ground, James slips out of Francis’ grasp. Francis says, “James,” but James is undoing the buttons of his waistcoat one by one. _Oh, God_ , Francis thinks, remembering how James had collapsed in front of the sledge, and all that blood—

Francis is paralyzed, watching James undo the last button with nimble fingers, then shrug the waistcoat off his shoulders completely. It falls to the ground next to Francis. Even in the loose shirt, James’ slender frame is evident, high trousers elongating his willowy body. “You’ll be joining me, won’t you, Francis?” James says, a wild look in his eye. He toes out of his shoes, yanks off his socks, plants his bare feet in the grass.

“Joining you?” Francis says, and James’ face is all mischief.

“In the water,” James says. He gives a puckish grin as he works at the knot of his cravat.

Perhaps this weather has boiled both of their brains. “You really have gone mad,” Francis says. James’ eyes gleam in the moonlight.

“No,” James says, “but I _will_ go mad if I have to bear the heat any longer.” He drops the cravat on the discarded waistcoat. His neck is a long, smooth swath of white, and sweat pools at the base of his throat, shining. James closes his eyes, stretches just so, rolling his head from side to side, the muscles and arteries flexing under his skin.

Francis’ face goes hot. It’s not as if he’s going to sit here and—and watch James _undress_ , if that is what James is doing, or intends to do. He busies himself with carefully folding James’ cravat. Feels the warmth where James’ body had been. James untucks the long tails of his shirt from his trousers. It’s all Francis can do to look away just as quickly, which elicits a laugh from James.

“Please, Francis, you were in the Navy just as well as I.” He undoes his braces, then pulls his shirt over his head, mussing his hair in the process.

And then—well, Francis _has_ to look. Tries and fails to stop himself. His gaze drifts from James’ neck down his arms, across the round of muscle to the scar on the swell of his bicep. This time last year it had been open, bleeding, the skin around it purplish-greenish-yellow. There’s a thin layer of skin over it now and Francis wants to press his thumb to it, test its strength. Wonders if he would feel James’ pulse there under the flesh, his blood thrumming just below the surface. Then the point of James’ elbow, not so sharp now, that’s good, to the sinewy stretch of his forearm. The nub of bone at his wrist. Raised veins a pallid blue. His hands like a marble statue’s, like David’s. How has he never noticed the size of James’ hands before? He held James’ hand when James was dying, but Francis never noticed how large James’ hands were—though James had seemed so much smaller then, so fragile. Not like now.

It strikes Francis that James is handsome. He has, undoubtedly, known this, on some level, for ages; it had, in fact, angered him, this pretty young man suddenly prized by Sir John when Francis had only ever earned his reproach. And he knows now that James is more than just what he appears, but it does not change the fact that James is handsome, objectively. Perhaps even beautiful. Francis follows the lines of his torso with his eyes and finds the twin scar on James’ side, pierced like Christ. Maybe there’s something to that, but Francis has never been much for God—God is a strong wind and a full sail; God is a ship sent at precisely the right time to keep you alive. God is a body that knits itself back together when it had come so, so close to unraveling. God is a heart that keeps on beating.

He’s hot again, something stirring somewhere he can’t quite place. Francis frets over his cravat, hands sweaty and trembling. James sees this, his fingers playing at the fly of his trousers. “That’s more like it,” James says, looking impish. “I’d hate to have to pull you in.”

“I’m not getting in the damned water, James!” Francis says, scrabbling for purchase like a man falling from a cliff. “Just because you’re gad-cracked doesn’t mean I am.”

James harrumphs and turns away. The shape of his back is something to behold, his spine a hard line bracketed with muscle. Francis watches James’ shoulder blades shifting as James fusses with the last button. An unbidden thought—how many people have placed their hands on these shoulder blades? How many fingers have traced the ridges of these vertebrae? Francis tries to think of anything else. _It’s none of your business_ , he tells himself, _not everyone is as unlucky in love as you are._

Still, Francis feels a degree of protectiveness over James’ body. He’s not sure why, exactly. He had not been the one to help James recover. He had abandoned James when his need was most dire, had not checked on him at all when they returned to London. He has no right to lay claim to James in this way, but he wants to. He does.

When James lets his trousers fall, it is all Francis can do not to gasp aloud. The impropriety of all this! James is shameless, sighing deeply as he steps into the water with a dancer’s grace. His legs are long, constructed of architectural curves and slopes—the delicate bend of an ankle, the vee of muscle behind his knee. And beyond that—it’s just as indecent to look, but—his thighs are smooth, a little birthmark there on his hip, a spot of ink on a blank page.

“It feels lovely, if you were curious,” James says, acerbic, the water halfway up his calves now. A glance back over his shoulder. “Live a little, Francis, no one’s going to see.”

But Francis is reticent, crosses his arms over his chest. James dips his fingers into the water and sends the moon’s reflection rippling. Even in the dark, James has a way of radiating light. Francis can’t look away—that isn’t new; James has always had a sort of magnetism about him.

This feeling, though. The gooseflesh chill on Francis’ arms; the pressure on his chest like a hot iron. He watches the water wash over James’ hands, James’ arse, and Francis wants to feel it. He wonders if the water is tepid or cold, how deep the bed of the river. Would he float? Would he swim? Would James laugh at him, the very sight of him, naked and descending into the water as if for baptism?

At once, James collapses into the water with a dull splash, all limbs. He dunks his head under and comes up looking like Neptune after an unfortunate misstep on the dock at Greenhithe. Somehow, this only serves to further endear him to Francis. He pushes his wet hair back and beams, carelessly immodest, emboldened by moonlight.

It aches, to sit on the riverbank, dressed and sweating and yearning for the restorative rush of cool water. But Francis thinks of his body, used and abused all these years—how can he subject James to such a sight when he cannot even bear it himself? When he washes, he does not dare look in the mirror. Shaving is a chore, a burden, to have to see himself for so long. If this body could be cast away like a shirt and trousers, if he could enter the water as just a soul, he would.

He wants to feel it, though. The cool or the heat or the lukewarm of it. James looks serene with his face upturned to the moon, and Francis wonders, would he feel that serenity, too? He has always loved the water, as long as he can remember, since a long day’s journey to Lough Neagh as a child. Even so young, he had felt the magic in the lake there, brimming with old stories of mermaids and giants and kings. As he’d floated, he’d dreamt of it permeating his veins, becoming a part of him. In his more wistful moments, he imagines this might be true.

“Cover your eyes,” he finally says, feeling very stupid even as the words leave his mouth. James is in another world. “Cover your eyes,” Francis says again, louder this time, and James jolts.

“I’m sorry?” James says.

Francis groans. “Cover your damned eyes if you want me to get in the bloody water!” He wants this over with, all these layers off and gone before he has a chance to change his mind. James frowns. Looks as if he’s going to complain. “Please,” Francis says. He hates how desperate it sounds.

James capitulates and Francis silently thanks whatever deity makes him do so. From there it is a race of fumbling hands, all sense of decency put out of mind. The shoes, the socks, the waistcoat. Too many buttons, too many layers. When Francis stands, it is on unsteady legs that threaten to give out. He wills himself to be strong—he had stared down spirits and devils in the Arctic and come out on the other side, still breathing, heart still beating. Compared to this, that had been simple.

With Sophia, he had felt the same way, and in their early days together, he had begged her to blow out the lamps, to shut the curtains. Anything to keep himself hidden away from her, so he would not impose the ugliness of himself on her. She had held him with gentle hands, touched the parts of him he could not bear to acknowledge, loved them when he could not. And he had begun to believe her when she called him beautiful, even in the lamplight.

So why should this scare him so? He is a man, made of the same flesh and blood and bone that James is. It should not be such a trial. But removing his shirt, stepping out of his trousers, standing bare on the banks of the river—it is terrifying.

He does it, though. With a heaving chest and nausea rising in his throat, he does it.

It should feel shameful, this. Nude in the moonlight, the crickets singing, the stars above them bright and numerous as grains of salt spilled across some great dark tablecloth. It ought to feel obscene; he ought to want to cover himself. But what he feels is something more like freedom. All his senses heightened, every part of him more aware and sensitive than ever before. There is soil under his feet, dark and soft, and there is a slow breeze in the air that chills the sweat on his back, his hands, his calves.

He takes a step back. Another, another. Further, until James is small, a blinded man bobbing in the water.

His legs have held him, shaking but steady. Though his heart pounds, it keeps on beating. He does not love this body, does not know if he ever will, but he trusts it.

“James!” he calls, and James lets his hands fall. From far-off, Francis watches him search the banks of the river for him. And—there. James’ eyes land on him, a wild grin spreading across James’ face, beckoning him to come.

And with a frantic sort of joy, his fingers extended, spread, arms outstretched as if of their own volition, eyes open and drawing in all this beauty, the stars and the river and the evening and James, Francis runs. Runs.

*

All through the blazing golden days of summer, they return and return to the river. The water is cleansing, in its way, and no matter what the day has presented, the nighttime journey to the riverbank seems to wash it away. Francis comes to cherish these moments, when they float, unguarded, and take in the sky.

He is still afflicted with melancholy—he suspects he will be forever, like an old man taken with an unshakeable cough until the end of his life. In truth, he does not feel so crushed by it these days. It’s hard to say where to ascribe the reason for the change. The scenery, certainly, and the return to hard work, the use of his hands and body to do something useful. The briny sea, the wind off the water, the rejuvenating plunges into the river.

Mostly, though, he thinks it is James. Is it possible to be cured by another person’s mere presence? Francis cannot say, but it is true that James brings out the best in him, and that James has learned the contours of Francis’ melancholy in a way no other person ever has. It is true, too, that James’ own gloom has become a familiar topography to Francis. It had taken him some time to learn, but he now knows those hills and valleys well.

James’ despair is different from Francis’. Where Francis cannot bring himself to move, his very appendages burdensome, James works himself to exhaustion. There are days when James rises early and works into the evening, not stopping for food or drink. His body is still recovering, and such strenuous activity takes its toll—his face red, his breath strained, his muscles weak. Francis has, more than once, met him in the garden or the parlor with cool water and a cloth, pressed to James’ forehead until he can breathe steadily again. It is a struggle, on those days, to convince James to sit inside, to write to Dundy or William, to rest. But Francis provides what he can—a bucket of water, a steady hand, a cup of tea. He cannot say if it works, if James is improving, but Francis hopes, hopes, hopes.

Rain comes again in July. For a few days, there are refreshing afternoon showers that save them the trouble of watering the plants, providing a cool respite from the still-suffocating heat. It feels like a drought breaking when that first shower comes. Francis stands in front of the cottage and lets rain pour down on him, drenching his hair and face and arms. James sprints out of it, but stands just inside the doorframe, laughing. The number of idiotic things Francis would do to hear that sound again, to know that James was, even if for just a moment, happy.

It is the middle of the night when the storm finally settles over them. There have been dark clouds on the horizon all day, the sea churning and crashing. Francis worries if the patched leak in the parlor will hold, or if the roof will be torn off, or if they will be swept away into the ocean itself. When he retires to bed that night, he prays for the first time since the Arctic, pleading for safety. He doubts anyone hears.

For hours, there is thunder, lightning, but no rain, until—after an eerie silence—a downpour. It crashes down on the roof with a sharpness that sets Francis on edge. He’s ridden out this kind of storm on the water before—he thinks of days on the Antarctic sea, the ship tossed so violently that Francis thought it might cleave in two. He ought to feel safer with the solid foundations of the ground and a bed beneath him, but he cannot quiet his mind enough to sleep. Lightning strikes a tree not too far off; thunder rattles the windows. He resigns himself to a restless night, lights the bedside lamp, and tries to read.

He fails, as he is so wont to do. He can hardly focus and finds himself rereading the same sentence over and over. His mind drifts to James in the other room, asleep on the sofa, under the windows. A part of him wants to go check, but if James has managed to sleep through this, Francis does not want to disturb him.

Nights like these, Francis’ melancholy rears its head. It has a way of consuming him, reminding him of his greatest defeats. He revisits gruesome visions of the past: men and boys, bloodied and dismembered by Tuunbaq’s jaws. Irving’s desecrated body. The smell of charred flesh in the air after Carnivale. His mind is a labyrinth without exit, old horrors lurking around every corner. He has tried and tried and tried to excise these memories, cancer that they are, but they eat him up. And when he feels as though he is progressing, as though one day he might be able to leave these in the past where they belong, they reappear, ghoulish, and taunt him.

He groans, loud, a pathetic noise he feels ashamed of as soon as it escapes him. This is a torment not unlike those first sober days on _Terror_ , when he had wanted for drink so desperately that it came as an ache in his chest. Now, he just wants rest, and perhaps forgiveness.

A terrible thought: no matter how much progress he makes, how many days he spends blissfully happy here, there will still be nights like this. Forever.

The realization threatens to break him. He sets his book aside, unable to concentrate on it anyway, the desire gone from him now. Rests his head in his hands. It will be a long night. There is no avoiding it. The rain falls in torrents, battering the roof, and the thunder reverberates deep in his stomach.

“Francis?”

The voice, James’ voice, is quiet, barely audible over the storm. He is in his nightshirt, leaning against the doorframe, face barely visible in the flickering lamplight. Francis cannot bear to make eye contact with him.

“Forgive me,” James says, “I thought I heard you.” He drums his fingers idly on his thigh, a nervous habit Francis has taken notice of. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Francis does think there is a troubled air about James tonight—the tentative way he approaches, how he lingers here, distant.

Francis swallows down the anxiety that rises in his throat when thunder cracks again. “Did I wake you?” he says. The only thing more embarrassing than keening in the dead of night, overwrought with grief and shame and whatever else he can’t yet put a name to, would be to have woken James with this pitiful display.

“I haven’t slept,” James says, weary.

“Nor have I,” says Francis.

An uncomfortable silence. Loaded.

What would make this easier? For both of them? Beyond the storm, beyond the impossible absolution of both of their pain.

Francis says, “Will you come and sit?” and James does.

This is strange and new, but the weight of James cross-legged on the bed beside him is a sort of comfort to Francis. Hard to explain why, exactly. For some time, they watch the storm through the window, following the paths of lightning in the distance, listening to the wind howl.

In the lamplight, James’ face is soft, eyes downcast. He looks young, small, fragile. Even with their evenings in the river, Francis has found it easy to forget the tenuous state of James’ health, how close he had come to death in those frozen days. He seems the paragon of vitality, brave and strong and full of energy. But here, Francis feels the weight of James’ years, those hard Arctic months.

Again, that urge to protect James. To feed him soup and rock him gently to sleep, as Francis’ own mother had, so many times. A foolish notion, but Francis can’t shake it. This man—this brave, beautiful man—deserves the world.

“How _are_ you, James?” Francis says, because he cannot say what he wants to say: _do you miss it_ and _was this worth it_ and _where do we go from here_.

James sighs. “I don’t sleep most nights,” he says. “I haven’t, really, since we returned. When I do sleep, I have…terrible nightmares. Of Sir John, mostly.”

It is the first time either of them have spoken his name. Spoken of the expedition at all. 

“I’m sorry,” Francis says, dumb.

“Do you?” James says, looking at Francis now, need in his eyes—for what, Francis isn’t sure.

“Sleep?”

“Dream of it. I wake up tasting blood in my mouth and have to check that my teeth are still there. Or hearing—the creature, as if it’s right next to me.”

“Oh,” Francis says. “I—I remember it at odd times. If I’m left alone to brood for too long, it comes to mind. Tonight, for instance.”

“Is that...what I heard?” James says, gently. He’s careful—they both are—not to prod too deeply, not to touch too near to the raw, pulsing nerves at the center of them. This sort of soul-baring had come easily, once, but now it feels wrought. At the end of the world, it had seemed natural to say, _are we brothers_? Here, though, in this life-giving, abundant place, the words are more difficult, more strained.

Francis only nods; it’s less difficult than admitting it aloud.

“We do not have to avoid speaking about it,” James says. Like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Francis.

Francis draws in a breath. “I don’t want to sully this place with it.” Which is true, but not the whole truth. The whole truth is, it’s hard, and it’s frightening, and he’s not sure what will come out of his mouth when he finally opens it.

“Francis,” James says. He places a hand on Francis’ knee. Even with the blanket separating them, it’s almost too much. “We carry it with us. I know you do.” A gentle squeeze. Outside, lightning illuminates the wine-dark sky.

Francis wants to place his hand on top of James’, but Francis feels certain he would balk at it. It’s enough to have this, a calming touch. There are freckles on the back of James’ hand, below his knuckle, between his veins. What would it feel like, to run a fingertip over those knuckles, to feel James’ heartbeat in his wrist? Francis dismisses the thought—childish fantasies, a boy begging to belong. The thunder claps; rain buffets the window; James’ hand is a safe harbor.

James says, “If we cannot discuss it with one another, with whom are we to discuss it?” A rawness to his voice. “A man cannot shoulder this burden alone.”

And Francis knows James is right. He usually is. And isn’t this what Francis has wanted since they returned—to not feel so alone? Here is a chance to be seen, to be known, if he will just reach out and take it.

Francis meets James’ eyes. Holds his gaze. “Those men died because of me,” he says. “I ought to have done more. If I had been more adamant that we go south, we would never have been frozen in to begin with. That was because of me.”

“Even if that were true, what of the tins?” James says. “Or of our friend, Mr. Hickey?”

“Oh, don’t say his name, James—“

“He does _not_ have power here.” On this, James is firm. “Just as we do not have the power to change what happened to us.” James leans forward, moves his hand from Francis’ knee to Francis’ shoulder. Holds tight. “We did what we could. _You_ did what you could.”

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

James’ face is close, his brow furrowed. “I do.”

Francis wants to say, _how?_ Wants to say, _would those dead boys think so?_ Words choke in his throat like bitter gall. James is too close, too good.

“You may not believe it, Francis,” James says, “but you are an honorable man. I see it in you each day. You must—extend some kindness to yourself.”

“I don’t understand how you can say that to me after how I’ve treated you.” Francis stammers, searching for words. “You—you nearly died, and I didn’t even spare you a visit! That is not the action of an honorable man. I ought to have stayed by you after we returned; I ought to have—read your letters, at least!”

James merely shrugs. “I don’t hold it against you. You were hurting. As was I. As, I expect, we both still are.”

And yes, yes, of course he is, of course they both are. There’s something tugging at him, a nagging feeling in his heart that he is afraid to acknowledge. He thinks, again, of James when he was young, very young, long before the Navy or even England. James, helpless, halfway across the world, unwanted. If he could secret that boy away and keep him safe, protect him from all that was to come—maybe all the regrets would be worth something. Francis says, “I wish you’d never heard of the Passage. So you wouldn’t have had to endure what you did. I wish I could have kept you from it somehow.”

James’ face is a cipher, unreadable. He had looked like this before, at the cairn, and then, too, Francis had felt the overwhelming desire to undo everything, just for his protection. Saying it aloud has not given Francis the relief he’d hoped for; it turns his stomach. A roll of thunder rattles the foundations of the little house, this place that has for so long felt invulnerable revealing its weaknesses.

“Francis,” James says, soft. A long, terrible quiet, a feeling like a sinking ship. This is what Francis had feared, coming back, being here—that he would expose himself too quickly, make James uncomfortable, make James regret all of this. “Do you mean that?”

It feels like a trap. But what can he say? How can he lie to James Fitzjames, the most honest man he’s ever known? Francis takes a deep breath before he speaks. Says each word slowly, carefully, weighing it on his tongue. “If it meant you never knew pain, or suffering, I would trade anything. Even our—our brotherhood.”

The words hang in the air, echoing like a shot. James’ hand is still there on his shoulder and James is looking at him, really looking at him, and Francis is certain this is the moment when James will realize what a failure Francis really is. Always has been. Some things can’t be changed, anyway, no matter how hard you try. He wants to push James’ hand away, spare himself the pain of having James do it. Tell James he’ll pack his things and be gone as soon as the storm passes.

But then James is pulling him in, holding him tight, and James’ face is wet against Francis’ neck, and Francis can’t move. _Won’t_ move. All he knows to do is put his arms around James, too, rub circles on James’ back, listen to James breathe. James’ hair is so soft, and James is warm but he trembles a little, and Francis wants to apologize and wants to fix this but mostly he wants to be held. He hadn’t realized that until now. How good it feels; how long it’s been.

The last person to hold him this way was Sophia, in those final few days before they left from Greenhithe. Four long years ago. And now—James Fitzjames. He does not know what to make of that. If it means anything at all.

James’ hands tighten, twist in Francis’ shirt. A sharp intake of breath, too close to how he had sounded at the end. Beyond this bed, this window, these walls, rain is cascading, perhaps flooding their garden, perhaps eroding the cliffs, perhaps tossing the ocean. But this is what matters—James’ pounding heartbeat, the gentle scrape of James’ stubble, the look on James’ face when he finally pulls back, taking Francis’ hands in his own.

James says, “You must know how…utterly devoid of color, and meaning, and beauty, my life would be without you in it. I would not give it up for the world.” His eyes are searching. For what, Francis isn’t sure. James squeezes Francis’ hands, smiles—a sight like leads opening in ice, like a smooth sea and a strong wind.

“I think it’d save you a lot of trouble, frankly,” Francis says. Cracks a grin, because what else is he to do? James is holding his hands so tightly, as if he’s clinging to a rope, and Francis cannot bear to let him go.

“It’s possible I enjoy your trouble,” James says with a little chuckle. He squeezes Francis’ hands again, then pulls away, folds his hands in his lap. Very quietly, he says, “I ought to let you rest.”

Francis speaks too quickly, the words clumsy. “Would it help you to sleep here, James?” Feels like he’s scrambling not to lose this moment, whatever this is that they’ve shared.

“I suppose it might, yes,” James says. Something flickers across his face, that searching look again. _Tell me what you need_ , Francis wants to say, _tell me so I can give it to you_.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa, then.”

“There’s room enough for both of us here, isn’t there?” James says. “If it would not—if you would not be—“ He shuts his eyes, shakes his head. Odd. James has never been the type to struggle for words—where Francis has resorted to touch and kind looks, James has always known what to say, perfectly articulate in the face of even the most indescribable of circumstances. “What I mean,” James says, “is that it might be a comfort to me, if you were here also.”

“I’m afraid I snore,” Francis says. Wants to give James a way out, in case this is pity.

But James just nods, smiles, says, “If that’s the worst thing I encounter in my sleep, I’ll be very grateful.”

“Of course I’ll stay with you,” Francis says, in a very small voice. Because this does, somehow, feel like an inevitability. Francis can’t explain it and doesn’t want it to lose its luster if he tries. So he blows out the lamp, and James crawls under the blankets, and there they are.

Francis faces James’ back, a hand’s breadth between them. The storm, it seems, is dissipating, the rain a quiet patter on the roof, and Francis focuses on the measured sound of James’ breathing. Steady now, low and deep, constant as waves breaking on the shore.

Did the possibility of this ever occur to him? James in his bed, close enough to touch? If he had heard this upon their first meeting, Francis would have laughed. But the path that led them here, winding and treacherous though it was, had only one ending. Francis is not sure if he believes in God or fate or destiny. He’s mostly sure he doesn’t. Somehow, though, James feels like a lodestar he’s been following all along. A point on a map he’s been drawing his whole life.

He had felt this way about Sophia, once. Like he was a ship and she the ocean. But Sophia, Sophia is a ship all her own, on a voyage she has to take without him. Losing her had, each time, felt like being told there was no water left in the sea. He’d thought his life was purposeless without her. He does not blame her for any of it, does not hold anything against her. He had loved her and lost her, and that was that.

Francis realizes now, as James turns over in his sleep, that he loves James, as much as he has ever loved anything in his life. The sea, the ice, Sophia, James. Perhaps this ought to scare him, perhaps he ought to fight against it, but he accepts it with the willingness of the wind to a sail. He cannot say if James feels the same way, but he thinks that possibly, it doesn’t matter. He had loved Sophia for a long time, too, and it had sustained him, given him hope. Now, his hope is this: James in this bed, James at peace, James strong and safe and healthy and loved. Just to have him here, to share this space with him, to swim in the river and tend the garden and make tea—it is enough to keep Francis going.

_I’ve got you_ , Francis silently promises. _I’ll not let any harm come to you ever again_.

*

Balmy sunlight through the curtains eases Francis awake. He half expects the night before to have been a dream, but when he turns over, James is there next to him, still asleep, with his hands curled in front of his face. James breathes very gently, and Francis is overwhelmed with tenderness for him. It takes a great deal of restraint not to reach out and brush the locks of hair off of James’ forehead, or to stroke James’ cheek with the back of his knuckles, or to intertwine his own fingers with James’.

Instead, Francis lays there in the warm dawn, thinking, _oh, I do love him._

He desperately does not want this to change what they have. He imagines blurting out his feelings in a moment of weakness and James recoiling, disgusted. How painful that would be, to once again be rejected by the person he most deeply cares for. Even from James, who would no doubt respond with grace and care, it would be too hard to bear. So Francis memorizes this moment—the lines on James’ face, his dark eyelashes against his cheek, the slant of light over James’ features—and holds it in his heart, like a specimen in hardened amber, preserved for the ages.

Because Francis tries so hard, things do not change, really, except that now James sleeps next to him, and Francis wakes up some mornings to James’ arm thrown over his side or James’ face pressed against his back. And Francis hardly minds this; he finds himself wishing it would happen more often, staying in bed later and later to savor how it feels. Yearning for it when it’s gone. He says nothing of it, though, content with what he has, afraid to upset this careful balance.

Truthfully, he relishes every tiny moment, holds onto them as long as he can, because this will be over soon. The house is nearly finished, each wall freshly painted, each chair reupholstered, every fixture polished until it gleams. When they are done here, well and truly done, what will happen to them? One night, Francis lays awake pondering this, James having laid his hand across Francis’ chest in his sleep. Francis cannot imagine spending a day without James, doesn’t want to think of what it will be like when he is back in London, sleeping alone. He allows himself the smallest indulgence—to place his hand over James’, the lightest touch he can manage, and watch their hands rise and fall with his chest. Even just this would be enough.

Their biggest obstacle left is the front garden, which has been flooded since the weeks of rain. Though they will not be here much longer, James is determined to fix the soil before they go, so that the garden will be just as abundant whenever William and Elizabeth do decide to visit. This turns out to be a much larger undertaking than either of them are expecting, requiring trenches to be dug and the soil to be re-tilled completely. So, on the first morning of August, James goes out in shirtsleeves and grass-stained trousers rolled up to his knees and sets to work.

Francis feels utterly useless, but James is the one who has truly shown himself to be green-fingered. Where the sweet peas that Francis had planted grew small and sad, James’ flourished, climbing the trellises against the front wall. Francis relegates himself to scrubbing dishes and cleaning the dining room table for the hundredth time, while James fusses with a trowel, up to his elbows in mud.

It is more than a little amusing to look out the window every so often and see James wrist-deep in the soil, pulling up wilted plants and their rotted roots, throwing them aside. There’s something beautiful about watching James work, sweat on his brow and dirt on his face, brilliantly alive. Now and then, Francis steps outside to bring James a glass of water, a cloth on which to wipe his hands, and James looks up with grateful eyes and thanks him, and something swells in Francis’ chest.

With each day, it has gotten harder and harder not to tell him. On some level, Francis is sure that James already knows—theirs is an uncommon bond, always has been, and since the Passage, their feelings for one another have operated at a depth beyond that of ordinary friendships. But if Francis were to actually put it into words, if he were to say to James just how much he feels for him, this might all crumble.

There is also the problem of desire. Yes, Francis wants to be with James—more than anything, he wants that—but does he _want_ James? Is such a thing possible? James has always been handsome; Francis has thought it an objective fact, as much a universal truth as the sky being blue. But he has, increasingly, found himself looking at James with a kind of yearning too disquieting to name. And there have been mornings when he’s woken, bleary-eyed, a needy ache between his thighs, like he’s suddenly a youth again. He’s never felt such things for a man before, and Francis is hesitant to characterize them as anything more than just his body reacting of its own volition. The same thing had happened with Sophia—although maybe that in itself is confirmation enough.

If Francis forces himself to be honest, really asks himself, _what do you want,_ the answer is clear: James’ hands, James’ arms, James in all forms, James in any way he might be given.

As he puts away cups and saucers and watches James make his way across the length of the garden, Francis ponders what step to take next, how to thank James for these months, this second chance at life. There are no words that could communicate the debt Francis feels he owes James, and even if there were, Francis would certainly stumble over them, anyway. What Francis trusts are his hands, the power a touch has to say what he cannot. He holds onto this notion, remembers how, in the Arctic and in his bed, it was the squeeze of a hand, embracing one another, that spoke volumes.

When the trenches are neatly dug, all the dead plants uprooted, the soil aerated and left to dry, Francis brings a basin of water, a bar of soap, and a few clean towels to the front hallway. He sets a chair there—plain, wooden, simple—and waits for James. Francis’ heart races. It is possible this is a huge mistake, and that doing so will cause everything to fall apart. But he has learned from James the value of taking a risk, and if laying himself bare is what ruins this, then at least he will have tried, at least he will have been true to himself in doing so.

Francis hears James on the other side of the door, knocking mud from his boots before balancing against the wall and pulling them off, letting them drop to the ground with a low _thunk_. Then the doorknob is turning, and Francis feels as if he has taken a step off the edge of Beachy Head, hanging in midair for one long moment before falling, falling, falling.

James is barefoot, and his shirt has come untucked, spotted here and there with bits of dried mud and pieces of grass. Both of his forearms are caked in dirt; there’s soil smudged across his cheek and neck and collarbone. Francis can’t help but look at him with fondness, though, thinking even now how lucky he is to be here with James, to see him like this.

“What’s all this?” James says, nodding at the basin and chair. He has his arms wrapped around himself, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible, careful not to mess up all their hard work.

“Sit,” Francis says. James eyes Francis, suspicious, but obeys, sighing as he sprawls in the chair.

James stretches a little, rolling his shoulders and neck, various joints popping and cracking as he does. “Absolute murder, that was,” he says. His exhaustion is evident in his voice, his words ragged around their edges.

Francis draws in a deep breath. Steels himself to do what he’d promised himself he would. With a quiet grunt, he lowers himself to his knees on the floor. The thought of looking up at James right now is too much; Francis isn’t ready to face him like this. He takes a towel and dips it in the basin, swirls it in the water.

James says, “Francis,” but Francis shushes him, wringing out the excess, slicking the towel with soap.

“Let me do this for you,” Francis says, as gently as he can manage. He reaches for James’ hand and James gives it, leaning forward just so. Pieces of crusted dirt flake off onto Francis’ fingers as he turns James’ hand over. The lines of his palm are visible under the dust. Francis almost draws a fingertip over them, but instead he gently scrubs at the detritus, careful to get the spaces between James’ fingers, underneath his nails.

Francis realizes his hands are shaking. Not unusual, but he knows that this time, it is not because of what happened in the Antarctic. And possibly he’s mistaken, but he thinks that James’ hand is trembling, too. He feels James’ eyes on him as he wets the towel again, this time washing up to James’ elbow, turning his hand back over and wiping away the still-dirty spots. He wants to ask, _do you understand?_ But rather than speak, he takes a clean towel and dries James’ arm, pleased with himself and the job he’s done. He thinks of pressing his lips to these knuckles, the parts of James that are cut and calloused, the parts that James keeps hidden, afraid to show to others.

James turns slightly, extends his other hand to Francis. Francis reapplies soap and water and repeats the process. His knees ache from being on the hardwood, but Francis pushes pain and distraction out of his mind. This is meant to be about James, _only_ about James. The only sound is the slosh of the water, the soft scrub of the towel, James’ breathing. Francis cherishes the opportunity to touch James this way, innocent and simple though it is. He can feel James’ pulse under his fingertips, how quickly James’ heart beats. Delicately, deliberately, Francis dries this arm, too.

Now, finally, Francis lifts his head to meet James’ gaze. James’ eyes are wide, his lips just parted. He looks—not quite scared, but Francis doesn’t know what to call this expression, either. Intensely focused, tracking Francis’ every minuscule movement. Francis wonders if he has crossed some line of propriety, though he knows full well they crossed those lines long ago. If James were upset, if James did not like this, surely he would ask Francis to stop. They do not keep things from each other, certainly not things so easy as this.

“You’ve got a bit on your chest, there, James,” Francis says, gesturing at the smear across James’ clavicle. It feels dangerous to break the silence. There’s light coming in from the window by the door, that honeyed summer light, falling over James’ face, the surface of the water in the basin, James’ newly-clean hands. James looks away for a moment, fingers worrying at the hem of his shirt. He takes a breath and glances at Francis again, helplessly.

Francis doesn’t know what to say. If he should say anything. He raises himself up on one knee and the floorboards yawn beneath him. Is it worth it to take _this_ risk, to make this leap? It’s only washing away dirt; it’s only taking care of a friend. He lays the towel over the edge of the basin, very quietly says, “May I?”

James gives the smallest nod, so insignificant it would be undetectable by anyone else. But Francis seizes on it, heart flying into his throat. He takes a corner of James’ shirt in each hand, and James bends a little, lifting his arms just enough for Francis to pull the shirt off over James’ head.

More soap, more water. Then Francis reaches, dabbing at the peaty blotch that splashes across James’ chest. It’s hard, now, not to look, all this skin so close. How desperately Francis wants to touch—the fine lines of James’ abdomen, the stiffening brown nipple, the hollow above his collarbone. James makes a soft, low sound as Francis scrubs away a particularly stubborn spot. Rivulets of water trickle down James’ stomach, catching in the coarse hairs there at the waistband of his trousers.

There’s a swipe of mud over James’ throat, too, and Francis turns to it now. Daring, Francis places two fingers under James’ chin and gently tilts his head, revealing the long sweep of neck. Francis feels stubble against his fingertips, James’ hot breath on his skin. The flesh here is so thin, muscles working under the light touch of the towel. If Francis were to press harder, the skin might bruise, blooming in shades of sickly purple and yellow. Some animal part of Francis wants that, a hungry, urgent part that thinks of biting here where James’ neck meets his shoulder, watching the blood vessels burst beneath James’ skin.

_God_ , he misses having someone to touch, to hold, to kiss. More than he’s been willing to admit to himself. And being this close, having _possibility_ a hair’s breadth and a universe away—it makes him ache. Maybe for another person it would be easy to lean in and kiss James as greedily as he wants to. But Francis feels helpless to do anything beyond what he’s set out to, and so he draws the towel over James’ skin again, dutiful and reverent as a penitent sinner at the feet of Christ.

This will all be over so soon. Not just this, tending to James this way, but all of it, the cottage and their bed and the river and Beachy Head and James, beautiful James, James who he loves like water.

“Last one,” Francis says, carefully tilting James’ face down now, James looking at him from beneath dark, full eyelashes. James licks his lips, a flash of pink tongue. The little dirt left on James’ cheek has sunken into the lines of his face—lines Francis has memorized as he’d once memorized charts of the Passage. Here a shoreline, there an inlet, further away, the unknown. Pressing the towel to James’ face, he wonders, will this stay unknown, too? Before the expedition, he had felt a drive to know more, to learn the remote places humans were not meant to go. He had thought that urge had died with his men, but something like it stirs in Francis’ chest now.

He could take this step. Here, Francis has done so much that he had never thought possible, never thought himself capable of doing—the nights in the river, the mornings in their bed. All because of James, who has taught him so much, who teaches him more each day. Francis finds himself extending his fingers now beyond the safe, permitted space of the towel and James’ chin, touching the soft, smooth place before James’ ear, the solid curve of James’ jawbone.

James watches him carefully, like a hawk eyeing its prey. Until—apropos of nothing—he sighs a heavy, world-weary sigh and closes his eyes, his brow furrowing. Francis does not know what this means or how to ask, but as he washes away the last bit of mud crusted below James’ eye, he decides: _go for broke_.

Francis presses his lips to James’, the towel slipping from his fingers as he takes James’ face in his hands. At once, Francis is plunging into the frigid sea, unfamiliar waters, but James is an anchor, a harbor. How long has he wanted this? Longer, perhaps, than he has been able to articulate—since that day on Beachy Head, or perhaps even earlier, at the cairn, in the cold. Francis kisses James hard, needy, starving.

When James places a hand atop Francis’, it feels like a miracle. Even finding the Passage would not have compared to this—James’ mouth, hands, tongue. Francis can think of nothing else, only this, as long as James will give it, as long as the universe will let him have it. He loves James. He _loves_ James. And, possibly, James might love him, too.

James weakly turns away, and Francis thinks, momentarily, that he has already lost this, that it was a misunderstanding, that he has made a fool of himself. But then James is kissing along Francis’ cheek, his neck, nibbling at Francis’ earlobe. It tickles a little, and, try as Francis might, he can’t stop himself from chuckling. Then James is laughing, too, and they’re clinging to one another, and Francis knows: this is what it means to be happy.

James says, “Do you know how often I’ve dreamt of this?” He is grinning as if in disbelief, a glassy look to his wide eyes, running a thumb over Francis’ sideburn. “Dreamt, but never dared to think you would want—“

Francis kisses him again, and James laughs into it. Francis murmurs, “I do, James. I do.”

How even the taste of James’ name in his mouth is different now.

He wants James. All of James. And James, seeming to sense this, moves Francis’ hand to his chest, presses it there over his heart. His skin is soft, and Francis can feel the rapid beat of James’ pulse beneath layers of flesh and bone and blood. Very quietly, into the crook of Francis’ neck, James says, “Will you come to bed with me?”

Over and over, until it no longer sounds like a word, Francis says _yes, yes, yes, yes, yes._

*

James undresses Francis with careful hands, pausing now and then to marvel. Even as it happens, it feels impossible—that James _wants_ him so, that James finds something beautiful about this body Francis is just learning to tolerate. “Do you remember,” James says, “that first night at the river? You were so reticent.” Runs his knuckles over Francis’ belly, kisses Francis as he slides Francis’ shirt down off his shoulders.

“Oh, Christ,” Francis says, against James’ mouth. Heat colors his cheeks pink. “Are you determined to embarrass me?”

“That you trusted me enough to let me see you even when you were afraid—I’ll never forget it.” Enraptured, James draws a thumb across Francis’ lips. Francis finds himself searching, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He wants to touch, wants all of James at once, just as much as he wants to draw this out into the languid summer afternoon, holding every moment on his tongue until it dissolves into sweetness.

James’ fingers find the buttons of Francis’ trousers and linger there, rubbing against the sensitive, insistent press of Francis’ erection. Francis sighs, wants, _wants_. He lets James move him to the bed, working the trousers off, fumbles with the fly of James’ trousers—mouths and hands all exploring the new terrain of skin.

At once they are flesh on flesh, head to toe, pressed against one another on the bed. When he was young, Francis had wanted to be subsumed by water; now, he yearns to be a part of James, as much James as he is himself. James seizes the bottle of lamp oil from the table near the bed and spills it over them, holds both of them in his hand as they move together, a mess of hips and gasps.

This place. This man. Francis can’t imagine leaving any of it behind. The way the light falls over James’ hipbones, illuminating the stretch of muscle at James’ side. James’ face is pressed into Francis’ neck, sucking at the tender skin there, and Francis holds James, his slender body fitting perfectly in Francis’ arms, Francis awed by the shape of James’ mouth, the sounds James can draw out of him.

He could be happy with this. He _is_ happy with this. But selfishly, greedily, he wants more—James beneath him, James’ legs wrapped around him, his lips pressed to that sunburst-shaped scar as if to heal it with a kiss. He lifts James’ hand off of them—James groans, nuzzles his face into Francis’ shoulder—and brings the slick knuckles to his mouth, kisses there. Francis says, “Could we—“, unsure how to ask for this, surprised at how ragged his voice sounds.

“Anything,” James says. “Anything you want, Francis.”

Hearing his name said now, in James’ lost, dizzy way, sends a jolt through Francis. “I want you,” Francis says. Fingers straying now to circle James’ nipple. He thinks of sucking it, sinking his teeth gently into it—how James would writhe and gasp and bury his hands in Francis’ hair.

“Then have me,” James says. Kisses Francis fast and deep and hard, with a sort of urgency Francis hasn’t felt before. Then they are moving again, James shifting himself under Francis, fingertips settling in the coarse hair under Francis’ belly, stroking at the base of Francis’ cock, making him shiver. This comes so easily to James, but Francis is overwhelmed—all this skin, all this touch. The whole time he has been here, he has followed James, fearless James, and in this, too, he wants for guidance.

“Tell me how,” Francis says. “Please.” He cups James’ face and James nods, turns just enough to kiss the heel of Francis’ hand.

James says, “Your fingers first.” Francis puts his fingertips to James’ lips and James kisses them, one by one. The planes of James’ body are firm under Francis’ hands—this body that had come so close to failing James, once, now full of life and breath and muscle and blood. What a wonder. He touches the birthmark on James’ hip, eases James’ legs apart. His hands shake when he pours out more oil, and he murmurs a quiet apology as it drips onto James’ cock, between James’ thighs. “Go slow,” James says, Francis’ fingertips trembling at the cleft of James’ arse.

Gently, Francis pushes two fingers in. James lets out a low, pleased cry from somewhere in his stomach. It makes Francis ache to think of how it will feel to be _inside_ James, to have James hot and tight around him, the sweetest kind of vise. Fluid pearls at the tip of James’ cock, and Francis, emboldened by the sounds James makes, leans down to lick it away.

“Francis,” James breathes, the name coming out like a sob. “Oh, that’s good.”

Any hesitation Francis had felt at the thought of fucking a man—not just a man, but _James_ —leaves him then. He works his fingers in an unhurried but steady rhythm, bracing himself with a hand at James’ bucking hips. In truth, he’s a little pleased with himself for making James so beautifully debauched, his skin flushed red and beaded with sweat. He can only imagine how he himself must look, so hungry for James that it throbs like a wound. James’ eyes are screwed shut, mouth hanging open, chest heaving.

“I want you,” Francis says again, crooking his fingers as he does. “Bloody _hell_ , James.”

James pleads, “Not yet, I—more, would you? Please, Francis.”

So Francis obeys, sliding a third finger in, stretching James open as he does. “I could watch you like this forever,” Francis says. It feels very silly to admit, but it’s true. James, euphoric, bliss painted across his face—it’s the most dazzling thing Francis has ever seen.

“Could you?” James says. Bites off a moan. “I think— _fuck_ —I think I’d let you. _God_ , are you sure you’ve not done this before?”

“I’ve been told I’m good with my hands,” Francis says, unable to restrain a wicked grin.

“I’m inclined to agree,” James says. He sets himself on his elbows, tilting his hips just so, and Francis pushes deeper, elicits guttural gasps from James with each tiny movement.

Need burns through Francis. His cock is stone-stiff, and every slight brush against the sheets or James’ skin is agony. He wants to bury himself inside James and watch James come apart. Wants to let James wreck him, tear him apart like wind in a ragged sail. Wants to tip over some edge and fall, clinging to James, knowing there is safety here, in him.

“James,” Francis says. It’s almost a whisper. “Can I—“

“Yes, _Christ_ ,” James groans. “Anything you want.” Francis withdraws his fingers and James looks as though he might cry. James finds the bottle of oil again and slicks his hand with it, a generous pour, takes Francis’ cock in hand and guides him there. “I imagine you can puzzle out the rest,” he says.

Francis blinks. He can’t turn back from this. “You’ll tell me if I hurt you,” he says.

“You won’t,” James says.

“But if I do.”

“I’ll tell you,” James says, reaching for Francis’ face, his fingers still dripping oil. Francis doesn’t care. He leans into the touch, kisses James’ wrist. James says, “Don’t worry.”

Francis nods. He hitches James’ hips up and James wraps a leg around Francis’ waist, his heel against the small of Francis’ back. Francis resists the urge to ask, again, for permission, to check that this is what James wants. It’s clear from the way James looks at him, pulls him closer, waits with a hunger in his eyes. So Francis draws in a deep breath and surrenders.

The first time Francis set foot on a ship—not even a ship, but a boat, a family friend’s little rowboat—he had known: _this is right_. He was just a boy then, but his sea legs came naturally, adjusting to the ebb and flow of the water with ease. He had leaned over the edge of the boat and dipped his fingers in, swirled them in the briny blue, the salt burning in an open cut on his knuckle. Had he known then that it would become his life? Perhaps not, but some single small part of him had to have felt it, even then. As he grew up, learned the names of knots and the ranks of the Royal Navy, it became as much a part of him as his name. The only thing he has ever really felt made for—a ship, a rope, a sail, an open sea.

Until this. He settles into James and knows, once again: _this is right_. There are tears at the corners of James’ eyes when Francis rolls his hips against James, and Francis reaches up, wipes them away with his thumb as James cries out—small, sharp, pleased noises, again and again and again.

Those early days on the _Fury_ , just a midshipman, Francis had begun to love the ice like nothing else. He’d wanted to crack into it, understand its secrets. Find the edges of the earth it hid. He knows, now, that it was all hubris, and that some lands are better left undiscovered. But it had been beautiful, hadn’t it? He’d loved it with his whole heart. Even when the Admiralty made it difficult, the land and the sea and the ice made it worthwhile.

He can’t say why he thinks of the ice. Perhaps he remembers James at the cairn, when even life had seemed like an impossibility. Now, he raises James’ hand to his lips and kisses, tasting oil on his fingers. James urges him, _more, more_ , and Francis obeys—it is all he knows to do when James is involved. But, _Christ_ , it’s good—he says as much, though it’s hard to know if the words make sense—and James is so beautiful, and he loves James more than anything, more than he’d ever thought himself capable of.

He gets his hand around James’ cock and works him in long, slow pulls—the only way Francis has ever done this to himself, the only way he knows how. Matches his thrusts to the pace of his hand, feeling his own pleasure beginning to unfurl inside of him like a sail catching the wind. James is helpless and gasping, digging his nails into Francis’ shoulder, and Francis wants to live in this moment, with the creak of the bedframe and the sun through the curtains and the smell of earth still on James’ skin. He says, “James, James, I—“, unable to form the words, unsure what the word even is, _love_ and _want_ and _need_ all there on his tongue.

James begs, voice raw, “Please—please, I want you to.”

Faster now. Waves crashing on the beach, not too far off. Water flowing from upstream, following the slow curves of the river down to the shore. The clouds gathering. A twinge of pain in his wrist; James thrusting up into Francis’ hand before keening, shuddering, spilling himself on his own stomach and chest. James’ body spasms around Francis and then, quick as a rope snapping, Francis is spending, too, pouring himself out, collapsing onto James or into James, he isn’t sure which.

They are a mess of sweat and tears and come, and they are exhausted, clinging to each other, out of breath and tired but together, safe. And though it is a silly, too-romantic notion, Francis thinks he could stay here forever, with James breathing against him, spend drying sticky between their bellies, like a pair of lovesick youths fumbling in the dark.

*

Afterward, they take care of each other. When his limbs will move again, Francis cleans them up, even gentler now than he had been when washing the mud from James’ hands. James fetches new sheets, a glass of water, nectarines that they slice and feed one another, kissing away the juice that runs down their chins. Though the evening is still young, they stay in bed, close, content enough to be together. Happy.

In the quiet, Francis wonders how he got so lucky. He has done nothing to deserve the pleasure of James curled next to him, dozing on Francis’ chest as the sun finally sets. But here he is nonetheless. Still, there’s a pang of worry when Francis lets his mind wander—the work is done, the house livable. There’s no reason for them to be here any longer. And when Francis thinks of returning to London, he feels cold, afraid, sick at the thought of having to give this up.

“What happens,” Francis says, “when this is over?”

James lifts his head. “Hm?”

“What will happen to us when we have to go back?” he asks. Doesn’t say, _I don’t think I can live without you again_.

James sits up, sighs, leans back against the headboard. “I wondered when you would ask.”

So James has thought of it, too. Francis finds James’ hand and laces his fingers between James’. “We’ve only just started, and—and here we are at the end.” A catch in his voice.

“If we could stay here, you and I,” James says, running his thumb over Francis’ knuckles, “would you want to?”

It’s not as if Francis hasn’t imagined just that—summer turning into autumn turning into winter turning into spring and the two of them here, tilling the garden and cleaning the house and, perhaps at Christmas, visiting their families, going to see their old friends. Francis says, “Of course I would, James. Of course I would.”

James draws in a deep breath. “I must confess that I’ve been keeping something from you,” he says.

A shock of worry. Francis cannot imagine what it is, what it has to do with their future here. “Go on, then,” Francis says, “I shan’t be upset with you.” It’s possible that he will be, but after everything, Francis finds it hard to picture ever being unhappy with James. Francis does love him, after all.

James says, “I may have—misrepresented the ownership of this place to you. You recall, I told you William had purchased this land as a holiday home for himself and Elizabeth.”

Francis waits for James to continue. Doesn’t want to interrupt. Needs to know where this is going.

“Some time ago, William had an annuity put in my name. This was perhaps a year before we left for the Arctic. It is—if I may be frank—a great deal of money, more than I know what to do with. At Christmas, I could not stand to be in London, and so I went to Brighton to visit William and Elizabeth. Have you ever been there?”

Francis shakes his head. He has never been the travelling sort, beyond what the Navy has allowed him.

“You would hate it, I think. I can practically hear you grousing about the Royal Pavilion already. Hideous thing.” James laughs a little, joylessly, nervous. “But being there—with people I love, and so close to the sea—I was more content than I had been in months. It _is_ true that William found this place. When I wrote to him of how I felt when I had returned to London, the—the unshakeable gloom that seemed to fall over me there, he made the suggestion that I consider leaving, and he sent me the information about this land.”

He doesn’t allow himself to name what he hopes for, the denouement of this affair. It couldn’t be possible; how would James know, and _why_ would James have invited him, anyway—the thoughts will spiral out, become uncontainable, if Francis lets them. He focuses on what is concrete: the bed beneath them, the lamp beside them, James’ hand in his.

“I thought of you, and so I wrote to you, but—“

“But I didn’t even read your letters,” Francis groans. “What a fool I’ve been.”

James hushes him, kisses at Francis’ knuckles. “When you didn’t answer, I thought, _he and I are the same_ , and I figured you were in just as sorry a state as I was. That was after the court martial, too, and I—I did worry terribly about you, Francis, but I didn’t want to impose.”

All this time. Francis wants to laugh, and he wants to kiss James, but he keeps himself quiet.

“By the time I went to visit you, I had already decided I would be coming here myself. I’d written to William and made the arrangements to pay. But when I thought of coming without so much as trying to see you in person—I couldn’t in good conscience do it. I half expected you to tell me to bugger off when I asked you.” James smiles gently now, his face softening.

Francis wonders, _did you want me even then?_ _Did you know we would end up here, like this?_ What he asks instead is, “Is this place yours, then? Is that what you mean to tell me?”

James says, “I thought it might be ours, if you’d like it to be.”

And Francis laughs, then, laughs so hard it brings tears to his eyes. He pulls James close and hides his face in James’ shoulder and laughs, incredulous, his body shaking. “I would,” he says, pressing his fingers hard into the muscles of James’ back. “More than anything.”

*

So here they are at Beachy Head again, where everything has changed, and nothing has changed. The walk there is still interminable, but James’ strides are shorter this time, matching Francis’ pace. And Francis—Francis cannot keep himself from smiling as they round the top of the hill, nearer to the cliffside.

He thinks now that here was where he first began to love James, when they had reclined side by side in the grass. Francis thinks he remembers a certain itch to take James’ hand even back then, though who can say, really. It’s possible he’s spent his whole life loving James, just waiting for the pieces to slot into place. In the end, it doesn’t matter.

What matters, Francis thinks, is how their fingers intertwine now. How they kiss lazily in the sunset, knowing there’s yet more time. The sound of the sea, the meanders of the river, the fall of rain in the evening as they draw close to one another to sleep.

Sometimes in the mornings, as they drink tea, read the paper, enjoy the comfortable silence, Francis looks up and catches the corner of James’ smile or a curl falling over James’ forehead. And Francis’ heart swells, and he thinks, _there you are_. Each day a new journey, a new chance to love James with all he has.

Today, though, they stand at Beachy Head, gripping one another’s hands, holding tight. The water below crashes, the air tasting of salt. They laugh. They laugh so often now.

James says, as he had before, “Are you happy here, Francis?” _Here_ meaning Sussex, the South Downs, Beachy Head, meaning the cottage, home, _my heart_.

Without hesitation, Francis answers, “Impossibly,” and squeezes James’ hand. Listens to the joyous, persistent noise of the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> My most gracious thanks to [Cee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reinetta) for being the MOST helpful beta, [Liv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille) for cheerleading/generally forcing me to write this, and my partner for putting up with me during the writing process. 
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/himbodundy) and [Tumblr](https://birdshitisland.tumblr.com/). Come say hi if you liked this!
> 
> This fic draws on a mélange of influences and inspirations, the most significant of which are the following:
> 
>   * The final paragraph of _Rabbit, Run_ by John Updike
>   * [“Bend and Not Break”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mt4MPzpb6g8) by Dashboard Confessional
>   * [“1 John 4:16”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YahiDX_mbWA) by The Mountain Goats
>   * ["Nightswimming”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-YHU6BwPR0) by R.E.M.
>   * [“I Feel So Much Spring”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXZHhLwsJfY) from _A New Brain_
>   * _Les Misérables_ by Victor Hugo
>   * [“Ode to Peace”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pm_3IMDcGIY) by Luke Faulkner
>   * [“With So Little to be Sure Of”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuwMltlzWzY) from _Anyone Can Whistle_
>   * [“Sea Salt”](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/58231/sea-salt) by Marla Miniano, which is also the source of the fic's title
> 

> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it 💜


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